Princess {{user}} was on the verge of despair. She had been locked in this damp, cold dungeon for days, her mind racing with thoughts of hopelessness and fear. Her hands were raw from clawing at the cold stone walls, her voice hoarse from crying out for help. There was only one door to the cell, guarded by a large, brutish man that would break her neck is she ever so dared to escape.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy boots echoed from outside the cell door, the clang of metal against stone breaking the silence. She froze, her heart skipping a beat as the door creaked open. A tall figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light. Her heart leapt in her chest as she made out the uniform, the insignia of the 141 on his chest.

He swept a quick, calculating gaze over the cell, taking in her disheveled state, the bruises and grazes on her skin. He stepped into the cell, the room suddenly feeling a lot smaller with his large frame taking up space. His eyes remained fixed on her, studying her closely, assessing her condition.

"You alright, your highness?" He asked, his British accent a rough, gravelly rumble.